Dalziel And Pascoe: Pictures Of Perfection Part 33

'Together? Doing what?'

Fran cast around for an idiom which might be familiar to the old man. All she could come up with was, 'Spooning.'

'Spooning?' he echoed, then threw back his head and laughed. 'Spooning you call it? In my days we kept our clothes on to spoon, especially in midwinter! No, my dear, what I think you mean is at the very least canoodling, and possibly even coupling, eh?'

Fran flushed deep apricot and said, 'I'm going to marry him, Grunk.'

'Of course you are. You're like your gran, my sister Frances. Went off and married the vicar while I was chasing sheep around New Zealand. She'd gone by the time I came home. Never saw her again. Pity. She might have told me little Agnes was pregnant. I never knew that, you know. I thought I got sent away simply because she wasn't what they called suitable. A terrible man, my father. Most of them were, the Guillemards. Perhaps you think I'm a terrible man too?'

'No,' she smiled, 'I've never thought that.'

'Good. I'll tell you something. First place Agnes and I ever spooned in, that was the garden shed too. What do you think of that?'

'I think it's great.'

'You do? Great, eh? Well, I'll talk to young fellow-me-lad later. First things first. Soon as you bind me together, you slip off and get that big fiddle of yours.'

'But I thought you weren't going to do the ballad today?' said Fran.

'Things have changed, haven't they?' he said. 'Besides, there's probably plenty of folk out there thinking it's going to be all cakes and no ballad. Can't have them going home disappointed, can we?'

And he winked at her.

It took Fran a second or two to grasp his meaning. Even then she wasn't certain. She'd always been sensitive to the politely glazed boredom of most of his audiences, and it had been a constant worry that the Squire himself might one day detect and be hurt by it.

She said cautiously, 'I'm sure most of them enjoy ...'

'Oh G.o.d. I hope not! After the years I've spent listening to them droning on at fetes and shows and concerts and meetings, I hope I'm not wasting me old age entertaining them!'

She began to laugh, the Squire too, and after a while, encouraged by their mirth, Harry Bendish came through the door, smiling shyly.

Kee Scudamore smiled shyly at Larry Lillingstone and said, it's probably all for the best, Larry.'

It was, she realized, at the very least an ambiguous statement. It could mean, it's all for the best that the object of an avowed celibate's desires should put herself out of reach by marriage. Or it could mean that in view of the kind of expectations Caddy would have of a husband, it was all for the best that someone else should be landed with her. What it really meant, of course, was that it was all for the best that her sister's availability had been so satisfactorily removed, thus clearing the decks for her own a.s.sault.

He said, 'Never console a professional consoler, Kee. He's played that game too often not to know all its finesses.'

Kee regarded him fondly, thinking how well despair became him. He was right, of course, he knew the cards of consolation as well as she did - the needs of the living, the healing powers of time. Eventually he would also recall that he knew these were not deuces and treys but mighty trumps. She wanted him body and soul. The one was still focused on Caddy, the other fixed on G.o.d. No problem, she thought. She was aware that the cure of unconquerable pa.s.sions, and the transfer of unchanging attachments, must vary very much as to time in different people, but, late or soon, she had the patience to wait.

She said, 'At least you can't think about leaving Ens...o...b.. until we get this business of the vicarage and the school sorted out.'

He said, 'Sometimes I get this odd feeling that I shall never leave Ens...o...b...'

'That will be nice,' she said lightly. 'We would all love you to stay. That way, not only could you finish your history of the parish, you could write yourself into it.'

'Talking of history, I think I see it coming,' said Lillingstone.

And he pointed to the house from which approached at a pace dictated by age, Fop's teeth, and an uncased 'cello, that (to Ens...o...b..an eyes) terrible trio of the Squire, Harry Bendish and little Fran Harding.

As news of the sighting spread, most villagers accelerated their consumption to a rate which left even Andy Dalziel floundering.

'What's going off ?' he demanded. 'Has someone cancelled tomorrow?'

'I think,' said Pascoe with greater artistic sensitivity, 'they may be trying to eat themselves insensible.'

There were those whom the threat of balladry inspired to more direct forms of escape.

Digweed said, 'I think the time has come to make an excuse and leave.'

'What excuse is that?' asked Wield.

'I came out in such a hurry I may have left the shop unlocked. With all these unsolved break-ins, a man can't be too careful.'

'Aye, lot of desperate criminals in these parts,' agreed Wield. 'Talking of which, I don't see young Toke tucking in. Don't he come to these things?'

'Almost invariably. Perhaps the poor devil's got wind of this strange union between Caddy and Halavant.'

'How'll he take it?'

'Badly, I should think. While Caddy was everyone's unattainable dream, he could be content. But now ...'

'Might he do summat . . . daft?'

'Self-destruction, you mean?'

'I weren't thinking of self.'

Digweed laughed and said, 'Oh dear. You're thinking like a policeman again.'

'I am a policeman,' said Wield heavily. 'Nowt can change that.'

The two men regarded each other cautiously, recognizing that almost imperceptibly their conversation was s.h.i.+fting on to another level. In the background the villagers chattered and chomped, distant birds sang, and Fran Harding's 'cello groaned in sweet agony as she lovingly tuned it.

'I'm a lawyer, a bookseller, a burglar,' said Digweed. 'These are labels, pa.s.sport pictures to the world outside. They don't mean much in Ens...o...b... Here we tend to know the truth about each other.'

'What the h.e.l.l does that mean?' asked Wield, frowning.

'I suppose it means in a way that here everyone is out. We may laugh at, quarrel with, gossip about each other, but ultimately if everyone's business is everyone else's, then your own business is your own. A kind of emotional communism.'

'You've lost me now,' said Wield.

'I should hate to do that, Edgar.'

'How the h.e.l.l do you know my name?'

'It's like I say,' grinned Digweed. 'We know everything there is to know about our own.'

'You're a right clever b.u.g.g.e.r, aren't you?' growled Wield.

'You'd be amazed. Listen, before I flee, something to occupy your mind while the Squire declaims. I mentioned before that I was thinking of putting in an offer for Corpse Cottage if your lot put it on the market. I suspect that could happen quite soon. You're not going to risk losing another young bobby to Ens...o...b.., are you? Now, it will stretch my purse a bit. I'd be pleased if someone came in with me, spread the burden. You look the careful type, I dare say you've got a few bob stashed away, all those bribes! So how about it?'

The proposition took Wield's breath away. Finally he managed to say, 'I'll think about it.'

'Up to you. Purely commercial. If you want. Oh G.o.d, I think he's going to start. See you later. I hope.'

And Edwin Digweed slipped away from Old Hall and made his way back down the High Street towards his shop and his fate.

Others followed, or had preceded.

Thomas Wapshare left with a genial wave, claiming the imminence of a beer delivery. Dudley Wylmot left with an awkward bow, explaining to any who listened that he wouldn't offend for the world but the law required him to open the Post Office. Caddy Scudamore left without explanation, her mind full of the shapes and colours of the Reckoning's excitements and her fingers aching to feel the heavy thickness of a brush. Justin Halavant, discovering his promised bride's absence, observed that to attend a Guillemard Reckoning might be History, but enduring a Guillemard Recital was mere masochism, so with a casual nod to the Squire and another to second slip, he hastened away.

And first of all to leave, convinced now that her son was not going to put in an appearance, and with foreboding increased once the amazing news of Caddy Scudamore's engagement had reached her, was the slight, pale figure of Elsie Toke.

But the vast majority of Ens...o...b..ans, anch.o.r.ed by feudal loyalty, immobilized by self-indulgence, or intimidated by Girlie's fierce gaze, remained in their places and listened to the Squire's ballad, until the screaming began.

CHAPTER IV.

'It puts me in mind of the account of St Paul's s.h.i.+pwreck, when all are said by different means to reach the sh.o.r.e in safety.'

Which one should it be?

The Good? The Bad? Or the Ugly?

He made his choice.

He raised his gun.

And he fired.

Wield felt the impact like a light punch on his chest. He looked down, saw the red stain blossoming, smelt the pungent, raw, vinegary odour of blood, and asked, more in bewilderment than bitterness, 'Why me?'

Laundering might save his cotton s.h.i.+rt, but he knew from experience that there was no salvation possible for the Italian silk tie his sister had bought him for Christmas. His wardrobe was festooned with silk ties (his sister was an unimaginative present-buyer) which spots of gravy, spatterings of soup, or even the fine spray from a rashly opened Guinness can had rendered unwearable. But blood was far worse than any of these. Blood was forever.

It occurred to him to wonder why the h.e.l.l he was worrying about his laundry.

Dalziel and Pascoe had reacted according to their respective humours.

The Fat Man went hurtling forward with the speed which in his rugby days had amazed many a twinkletoed stand-off. But fast as he was, youth and vengeful fury made Harry Bendish even faster. His injured leg forgotten, he leapt on to the table and launched himself in a bone-crunching tackle which caught the berserker in the midriff and swept him the full length of the polished surface till they shot off the end and crashed together on to the unyielding lawn.

Pascoe meanwhile put his arm around Wield and cried, 'Oh G.o.d, Wieldy, are you all right?'

It was not perhaps the question a man of education in such a circ.u.mstance would wish to have asked, but cliche comes in through the french window when deep emotion writes the script.

Wield, more practised in control and more wedded to precision, examined and a.n.a.lysed his feelings, and said with a mild surprise, 'I'm a lot better than expected.'

'But all this blood ...'

'I don't know whose it is,' said Wield. 'But I'm pretty sure it's not mine.'

And Dalziel, noting with admiration that Bendish not only tackled like a full back but punched like a front-row forward, flourished the berserker's discarded weapon like a trophy and said, 'It's one of them war-game guns that fires paintb.a.l.l.s. Still, not to worry. It's the thought that counts. Tell you what, young Bendish. Pull that balaclava thing off and you'll get a lot better target to aim at!'

Harry paused in mid-punch, nodded his acknowledgement of the superior wisdom of age and experience, and ripped aside the balaclava to reveal the slack, pallid face of Guy Guillemard.

The young redhead got in one more telling blow before Franny seized his arm and cried, 'Enough!'

Bendish looked ready to disagree, but young love is a disciplinarian stronger even than old authority, and reluctantly he rose to his feet, then less reluctantly put his arms round the girl's yielding body and pulled her close for comfort.

Now the victims of the berserker's a.s.sault on his way through the village began to appear to express their outrage. Thomas Wapshare brought explanation as well as indignation.

'The b.u.g.g.e.r broke into the Morris,' he said. 'Drank a bottle of cognac, and he must have found a bucket of pig's blood, you know, what I use for the black puddings, and reckoned it'd be a lark to fill his ammo with that instead of paint. You should see the b.l.o.o.d.y mess he's made!'

Edwin Digweed too appeared. He and Wield took in each other's gory appearance and exchanged smiles.

'I thought I was dead,' admitted Digweed.

'Me too,' said Wield.

The bookseller touched his b.l.o.o.d.y front with his forefinger and held it up before his eyes.

'What I suggested before,' he said, 'it occurs to me, a sensible chap like you might feel a very natural caution about letting yourself be picked up by a strange man. I a.s.sure you I too have been extraordinarily cautious since this new Black Death came among us. I have the certification to prove it.'

'Me too,' said Wield. 'Don't worry. I was going to ask.'

'You were? Does that mean you've decided yes?'

'From about five minutes ago,' said Wield, looking ruefully at his b.l.o.o.d.y front. 'Life's too long for silk ties, isn't it?'

Three of Guy's victims didn't return to the Hall.

Caddy Scudamore had looked over her shoulder at the blood trickling down her smock, then headed straight into her studio where Justin Halavant found her a few moments later, stripped to the waist, experimenting with this new material on a variety of surfaces. Smiling, he pushed a stool into a corner and sat down to watch her.

And Elsie Toke hardly paused in her stride as she headed past the pub and turned towards her cottage.

Here at her front gate she stopped and sighed with relief.

Her son was in the garden. He was wearing jeans and a white T-s.h.i.+rt and he was digging the ground under one of the windows.

'h.e.l.lo, Ma,' he said. 'Thought we'd have some stock and petunias here. And some spuds and cabbage round the side. What's been happening to you?'

'Yon mad b.u.g.g.e.r, Guy Guillemard. Not to worry. It's the last time he'll be larking around here for a while. Fancy a cup of tea? I fetched you some cakes from the Hall.'

'In a minute,' he said. 'Good Reckoning, was it?'